I am a Landslide
by Stephane Richer
Summary: All the distances I know feel just like the shapeless ocean's cold and all I want to do is hang around with you


I am a Landslide

Disclaimer: Don't own Fujimaki Tadatoshi's _Kuroko no Basuke _or Tired Pony's "I am a Landslide".

* * *

After the match, they are silent. It's not immediate, of course; they say what they're supposed to, meaningless words about jobs well-done and things out of their control and energy and spirit and tomorrows and every other cliché they can say until their throats are dry. They take long showers and let the tears mingle with the streams of water from above and the shaking of their shoulders evaporates with the steam.

Five stay longer, breathe harder, avoid each other's gazes.

Kimura throws his uniform into his bag and zips it up quickly. "I have to go help out at the fruit stand."

He turns to leave, and Takao catches the door before it closes. His shirt is buttoned wrong but either he doesn't notice or he doesn't care. "I have to pick up my sister from day care." The door slams shut behind him and echoes into the silence that has settled in between the remaining three players.

Ootsubo grins. It's big and fake and awkward and Miyaji actually cringes back away from it ever-so-slightly. Midorima is caught between the urge to do the same and not being able to look away from the expression in all of its ugliness. "Chin up, guys. We still have another game; it's not over yet."

"It's okay to be angry. You don't have to fake a smile," Midorima says.

"Oi, don't go around talking like you know these things, brat," Miyaji says, smacking Midorima in the back of the head (somehow, the smack is gentler than usual, though). "Anyway, that's my line."

Both of them look back at Ootsubo; he's still smiling but it looks more genuine. Miyaji throws an arm around Ootsubo's shoulders and jabs Midorima in the chest. "Now leave, dumbass."

Almost as if on cue, Midorima's cell phone vibrates. As he walks out of the door, he hears shifting and murmuring. They could try to be less obvious about it, but at this low point they probably care a lot less. Of course, his phone's buzzing again. He normally doesn't get too many text messages—and neither of these last two is from Kise, who single-handedly takes up about half of Midorima's cell phone's memory every month with his self-advertisement ("Check me out in the new issue of Zunon Boy!") and his persistent requests to get together and do something because he's in Tokyo for work. One is from Murasakibara and the other is from Midorima's sister.

His sister wants to know if they'd won. Even though he's been thinking about the loss constantly since the sound of the final buzzer, having to type out his short response slams him in the chest all over again and he sputters and coughs and his eyes start to water. He rapidly blinks, thankful for the length and thickness of his eyelashes and the force by which they push back the angry tears he'd thought he'd rid himself of already. He presses the button on his phone and waits for it to send while he tries to slow his breath and ready himself to read the words from Murasakibara.

He's so busy concentrating himself that he flinches backward when a familiar pair of strong arms wraps around his waist. Of course, moving backward just bumps his back against Murasakibara's strong chest. His head is up against Murasakibara's throat, fitting almost perfectly under his chin. He lets himself sink into the familiar, warm arms for just a few seconds.

When he trusts himself to speak, he turns around and steps backward again. Murasakibara parts his arms but does not completely let go of Midorima's torso, keeping his hands firmly over Midorima's hipbones. Midorima covers them with his own hands. Were this another situation, he might snap at Murasakibara to not be so handsy, especially in a place where someone might walk in on them and _see_—but he's not in the right frame of mind for any of that, now. He can barely form any words, let alone unimportant ones. He's too drained and despair is seeping through to him and he needs to block it out. "You saw?"

He nods. There's really nothing more to say, then, isn't there? He's seen the final score, the way the chips fell (shogi tiles would be a more appropriate metaphor, here, but really he shouldn't get too carried away or caught up in things like this) and how again and again Shutoku had fallen and could not rise quite fast enough. There's so much Murasakibara could say, in praise of Midorima's game or his shots or his strategy—but saying it now won't be of any help. It only makes things worse. He wants to believe he could have done something different, something better, to guarantee a better outcome—and maybe he could have. Murasakibara doesn't have a crystal ball and even though he knows basketball quite well he can't say he knows all the possible outcomes of every game. It hurts more the harder you try when you still cannot succeed. (That, after all, is why he tries not to try hard. Failure cuts deeper than he wants it to.)

They stand in silence for a few moments, until Murasakibara drops one hand from Midorima's hips. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a familiar-looking brightly-colored plastic package. "The new Maiubo is red bean flavored."

He unwraps it and places the corn snack in his mouth. It doesn't taste quite sweet enough to satisfy him, but it's not completely terrible.

As Midorima chews on the Maiubo, Murasakibara continues speaking. "Aka-chin is being unreasonable."

Does it matter? The flutter of his eyelashes, faster because he's almost squinting to rid himself of sight—oh. "It would have happened, anyway," Midorima says. Besides, the other Akashi might not have shaken his hand—he wants to believe that Akashi, the one who was something like a close friend, would have reached out at the moment that he did, but he can't know for certain. Perhaps it's better not to know, because the ache in his chest, the twisted thing weaving its way around his lungs and constricting his airflow would slice its way through like a katana until his lungs filled with blood and his heart stopped if his friend had looked down on him like he was an ant who has been stepped on but continues to writhe. He'd like to make peace with this Akashi, but if he doesn't it's not the end of the world.

None of this is the end of the world. After all, they've survived two thirds of a year miles away from each other, he and Murasakibara, eight months of sporadic calls and text messages and brief meetings and here they are standing in a hallway as their world continues to upend itself, to shake and rearrange its hierarchies, but they manage to hang onto each other.

Midorima pushes up his glasses, balls up the plastic wrapper, and tosses it into a nearby trash can. "That had a funny aftertaste. Buy me a real can of oshiruko so I can rid my mouth of it."


End file.
